Through the evening, several semi-planned spats erupted among the surfchicks—these babes were quickly learning how to make reality more real for the cameras, and so, urged on by Terry and Hector both, Moki Sue merrily belittled the surfing skills of her competitors, especially Marcia and Henrietta, who retaliated in kind.
Trapped between Dario and Townsend, Lucy missed out on the girly melodrama and instead made useful small talk with the realtors. Dario, who was half-Mexican and half-Californian and possessed dual citizenship, seemingly had married into one of Sayulita’s wealthy families a year back. He was rich, arrogant and all-knowing, while Townsend, American salesman type to the rotten core, kissed Dario’s ass. From the two of them Lucy learned how the Ejido system worked. Before the recently enacted law allowing gringos to buy houses via bank trusts had passed, the only way for gringos to own property in Mexico was with a Mexican partner, called a prestanombre, whose name would go on the deed along with the gringo name. These paper partnerships of convenience, formed under edicts proclaimed by each municipal council, or Ejido, were accompanied by powers of attorney which prevented the Mexican prestanombres from doing anything with the houses, such as buying, selling, renting, occupying or otherwise using them to their own advantage; and if properly written, the powers of attorney allowed the American partners to do what they wanted without the Mexican partner’s permission. Dario served as prestanombre for over fifty houses in Sayulita, he claimed.
With roots in both Sayulita and Southern California, Dario had been a serious surfer a few years back. Since he was also a big shot around town, he had been anointed an X Dames surfing contest judge. The surf champion El Pantero was the second judge, and Judy Leggett, former American womens’ champion, served as the third.
Judy maintained a low profile through the evening, and Lucy wondered what it was—other than Judy’s weird replay of the knife-to-the-nostril scene from Chinatown—that had triggered her suspicions in the first place. Here in Sayulita, off her own turf, Judy seemed a non-player. Terry said she thought the woman was stoned on codeine or barbiturates, easy to come by from a Mexican pharmacy, but who knew?
In any case the show’s mix seemingly was rich with potential strife and conflict. Good material.
As was her habit at large, loud dinners, when not making small talk Lucy watched. And so she watched—Marcia. After she’d downed several shots of tequila and at least five beers, Marcia ended up coming on hot, cheap and heavy to Ruben Dario. Lucy knew why: he’d been sneaking smoldering Latin lover-man glances at Marcia every chance he got. And she fell for it, for at heart, Lucy was certain, Marcia remained an innocent in spite of her surf skills, her Goth hair and surf-goth style, and her possibly evil drug habits. In his late thirties, Dario was handsome, wealthy, once a renowned surfer, now a man of the world. All in all, a major temptation for a girl like Marcia.
The two other serious surfer girls, from San Diego, were due in at midnight. Bobby had trolled the beaches of Sayulita that very day, X Dames checkbook in hand, and found four other hot babes and signed them up to fill in the competitive ranks. However, the two Canadian sisters, the Japanese exchange student, and the Colombian hippie girl were not actually surfing or even paddling out, due to the unusually large waves. Instead they would stand on the beach in their itsy bitsys—they all had great bods, of course, and Bobby would provide the bikini if anyone didn’t have the right one—with surfboards at hand, gazing out wistfully and shaking their heads. Surf’s too much for us. We’ll have to leave it to the pros. This would enhance the already awesome reps of those dames brave enough to paddle out in this once-in-a-decade monster swell. It was shaping up to be a wild, wild scene. Made for TV.
And then as the night wound down, somewhere in the mists of tequila-land El Pantero had made a move on her, Lucy Ripken. After staring at her intermittently with his bad kitty black eyes at the table, and flashing his lovely white-fanged smile her way to further signal his interest, he caught her in an unguarded moment as she emerged from a 600-square foot bathroom designed to mimic a jungle grotto, and there among the lilies and orchids and rustling green leaves he almost convinced her that an amorous tumble in her posh, king-sized hotel bed would be worth the next day’s regrets; but no, at the last possible instant, before her inhibitions simply melted away in the heated urgency of the panther’s desire, she slipped away, back to the table, strewn with tequila bottles, and sat her ass down to draw a deep breath and consider her options; and then a skewed glance across that same table at Teresa, stone cold sober, watching her with concerned eyes, had shut down her libido. And so instead of humping the panther, soon thereafter she slipped out the door with Teresa, and the two of them trudged home side by side, holding hands on a long, pleasantly sobering mile’s walk down the sands of Sayulita’s beach, from the north end to the south, mulling their own less-endangered fates in the shadow of the fate of young Marcia, wasted on tequila and beer. They had left her to fend for herself. Back at the Villa Roma they’d sat up for half an hour taking notes on the evening’s doings, plotting, plotting—and then crashed in their separate bedrooms. Marcia hadn’t shown to claim the third bedroom by the time they went to sleep.
And now another day. Lucy got up and pulled the curtains and the sliding glass doors open, then jumped back into bed, drew the sheet up over her naked self, and gazed out, listening to the loud but strangely soothing roar of the sea. Across the dirt road, through the picture-framing trunks of coconut palms, in the misty morning light, on a glass smooth surface the big waves broke, one after another, six to ten foot faces, clean lines in the sunrise light, surfing perfection on an epic day at Sayulita Beach. At this sleepy hour she could see just three early-bird wave hounds out, scoring perfect right-breaking waves one after another. She watched one drop into an eight-footer, only to blow his bottom turn, lulled by a slow-peeling wave-lip that suddenly collapsed, sending him into a crash and burn under several tons of furious whitewater.
Big surf, half a dozen hot wave-riding girls, and after last night, enough plot potential to drive the X Dames for a season, if need be. Like Leslie had said, just put them all in a room, or in this case an ocean, and let them be themselves. It seemed to Lucy that with so much going on both in front of and behind the cameras, the real challenge for Teresa and her would be writing and editing out the shenanigans of those not actually on the show. Or working them in as the scenario required.
She put on a plush terrycloth robe she found hanging on the bathroom door, then banged on the door to the next bedroom. “Yo, Ter, time to shake it. Showtime, hon.” She heard a murmur, and went in. Zonked out flat on her back in the middle of her kingsizer, Terry was covered by her sheet from head to toe, like a corpse. “Hey, get your booty moving, girl,” Lucy said. “The surf is way up and we have a TV show to invent.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Terry said, pulling the sheet down and sitting up in bed in her sleeping t-shirt. “You know me, Luce. Morning’s not my best time.”
“Did little Miss Marcia make it home?” Lucy said, nodding at the door to the next bedroom.
Teresa shrugged. “I don’t know. I took half an Ambien to make sure I slept.”
“You got any extra? I hear that stuff works and doesn’t mess you up. A good night’s sleep would be a godsend. Jesus, I hope Marcia didn’t chase that Dario home,” Lucy said. “He was throwing bedroom eyes at her all night, right in front of his girlfriend—or I guess the appropriate word would be mistress.”
“I noticed. So did she. Sandra I mean.”
“So did everybody. It’ll be on prime time. Our little Marcia’s none too subtle. Which makes her perfect for reality TV, doesn’t it?”
“Yep. Hey, where’s coffee? I need coffee. The Ambien may not fuck you up but it definitely clogs your head.”
“Everybody’s coming here for breakfast on the verandah in…” Lucy looked at her watch. “Twenty minutes. Then its down to the beach to get the first heat started. They’re thinking about getting the whole contest done tod
ay, while the waves are smoking.” Lucy felt totally wired. This was reality TV. With big waves and red-hot girls to ride them, it was sure to be really good fun.
CHAPTER FIVE
BIG TROUBLE IN THE BIG WAVES
Lucy put her black one-piece on under pink shorts and a black t-shirt, stepped into her flip flops, and methodically packed a bag with her waterproof digital camera, towel, #30 waterproof sunscreen, shades, collapsible sun-hat, three lipsticks, hairbrush, Spanish phrasebook, pack of sugarless gum, hairbrush, and five hundred pesos. About fifty bucks. She knocked on Teresa’s door, went in, found her dressed and ready to roll, then crossed to the next door. She knocked. No answer. Knocked again, a little harder.
“Momentito, por favor.” A man’s muffled voice. They looked at each other.
“The plot thickens,” Terry said.
“Want to guess who?” Lucy said.
“Ten bucks says its Dario.”
“My bet’s on Bobby.”
“No way. He’s already babed-up. Besides, why would he speak Spanish?”
“He thinks I’m a maid.”
Lucy banged harder on the door, then waited. It opened after a moment. Wrapped in a towel, bleached hair sticking straight up, a shit-eating grin on his face, there stood El Pantero. “Fuck,” Lucy said, plunged into a sudden whirl of a state: dismay, jealousy, insecurity, anger. Take your choice. “What the hell are you doing here?” she said.
He shrugged, and grinned. “Miss Marcia—she—ah—invites me. So I come.” Marcia emerged from her bathroom, naked, toweling her long black hair dry. She was slender, muscular, small-breasted; perfect, and eleven years younger than Lucy. And Lucy could not help but notice that her pubic hair had been—styled? Trimmed and groomed? What was the correct description? The Brazilian was a complete shave; Lucy knew that much. But this was more of a—landing strip!
“Hi Lucy,” she said, completely guileless. “What’s up?”
Lucy gazed at her, attempting inscrutability. “Are you ready to compete today, or are you so fucked-up that—”
“Stop it, Luce,” Terry said evenly, from across the room. “Don’t go there.”
“You’re right.” Lucy said, tone gone flat. She looked at her watch, then at Marcia, who met her stare head-on.
“I’m fine, Lucy. Yes I got drunk last night and I slept with this guy and we fucked like two or three times but I insisted on all the necessary precautions and now I feel just fine. I’m ready to rock.”
“Breakfast’s on the terrace across the street in seven minutes,” Lucy said. Maybe it would be harder going than she’d expected, befriending Marcia Hobgood. “Be there.” She closed the door, and looked at Teresa. “I guess we both lost that bet, eh?”
“Aren’t you glad you didn’t bring that dickhead back here last night?”
“You might say that. Obviously the guy’s a horndog, wanted to fuck whoever.”
“Well what did you think, he was in love with you?”
“Please shut up now, Ter,” Lucy said, but she was smiling. “So I’m stupid sometimes.”
“You weren’t stupid, Luce. You were almost stupid.”
By seven-thirty they had assembled on the Villa Roma’s immaculately-groomed grass terrace overlooking the rocky south end of Sayulita Beach. They sat in white wrought iron chairs around a long white oval-shaped wrought iron table sculpted with fleur de lys and such. The Villa Roma fancied itself fancy. Lucy found herself seated next to Sandra Darwin at one end of the table, closest to the steps leading down to the beach. Sandra was distracted, tense, intent, eyes mostly on the waves awaiting her. Lucy knew she wanted this one bad. All the surfer girls were present, including the two from San Diego who’d arrived late—their names were Bev and Charlene, a pair of hard-charging, thirtyish blondes, perennial surf-contest also-rans but good enough to fill the X Dames ranks and on a good day capable of an upset win. They both featured the sculpted, angular faces and lanky musculature Lucy had come to associate with serious women surfers. Also on hand were the four ringers Bobby had gathered up on the beach the day before. Six more women to go with the Hot Surf Six, and all possessed of a strong, sexy vibe. Hector and the other camera guys roamed the periphery, documenting every moment of drama at table, as four waiters in black pants, white shirts, and black bow ties delivered platters of fruit salad, eggs, beans, toast, bacon, chile rellenos, and tortillas along with pitchers of coffee, milk, fresh orange juice, and bottles of champagne. Among the surfer girls only Marcia, tucked in between Moki Sue and El Pantero near the other end of the table, hit the bottle. Lucy counted three brimming refills. In the background, across two hundred yards of churning ocean, the waves cracked and roared, a dozen local surf kids slicing and dicing them in a hurry to get it while they could, before the X Dames Sayulita Surfbabe Throwdown took over.
They ate and chattered, while the crew filmed on. The drama had turned quiet: a bit of sexual undertow, and the girls anxiously looking out to sea. No time for bullshitting now, with the tension building. For all the Hollywood hype and the sexy babe business and the sideshow insults, there was a surfing contest about to start, and the waves out there loomed big and fast and unforgiving. These girls were up against the real thing.
Eventually Bobby tapped a spoon on a glass a few times, then stood and cleared his throat. He took off his shades and smiled his sexiest Hollywood producer smile. “Well here we are, gang. And this is it: Showtime. Never in my wildest dreams about how this show would work did I imagine that we would have a set-up like this for the first episode. Like Henrietta told me last night, ‘The surf out there is fucking ferocious, man.’ And that it is,” he said, looking towards the waves. “So I’m only going to waste one more minute of your time before we get on with it, because I wanted to say thanks to my partner Judy Leggett for steering us to Sayulita after we decided to start with a surfing contest. What a great little town it’s turned out to be. And thanks to Teresa MacDonald and Lucy Ripken for agreeing to come down here on short notice to help organize the story. And to Ruben Dario and Sandra Darwin for setting things up. Thanks to all you crew dudes, and Leslie, our fine director. And most of all thanks to the girls,” he raised a glass of champagne, “for sticking your butts on the line by signing up to paddle out in that maelstrom to compete. I for one am not going to even get my toes into that crazy ocean today. You is one brave bunch of dames. So here’s a toast to the X Dames.” Bravos and applause. He went on. “So I know you’re all wondering how its going to work, right? Well, we decided in the interests of showbiz to keep it simple. Also the waves being so large, we thought you ladies might get worn out if things went on too long. So this is it: two thirty-minute heats, six surfers in each—well, four, since I suspect our last four entrants may end up on the beach, where I found them and where they belong, watching. We count the best six rides, you score points from one to ten, ten being tops. Each judge scores each ride then we average out the three scores. Two advance from each heat, leaving four in the final. The final’s one hour, same deal only you’ll get scored on ten rides. Judy’s wave-tracker guy says this is the last day of the swell and its probably going to start fading this afternoon so we’re planning to do the whole shoot today, probably try to squeeze the final in before lunch too if we can. Time is money in showbiz, and today the surf’s on the clock too.” He looked at his watch. “It’s eight-forty-five. First heat’s at ten. Everybody should be down at the pavilion by nine-thirty. That’s it. Do your best, girls.” He sat down. Judy whispered something to him. “Oh,” he stood again and went on. “I almost forgot. You know this already but just in case it slipped your mind, the prize for winning today is twenty-five thousand and an invite to the next round of X Dames with its hundred grand first prize pay-off. I think you all know the drill. We’ll take one winner from each of six or eight sports, put them in a ring with a bunch of starving lions, and whoever survives gets a hundred grand. Hehe just kidding. No, the finals are still in the works. We’re honestly thinking about hiring trainers fro
m Thailand and teaching our individual winners to kick-box, so that we can have a real fight to the finish. But the main thing is today we got some world-class waves, and you girls have a chance to strut your stuff and launch episode one with some sexy surfing. And so—may the best dame win. Everybody else, well, you got a paid vacation in Mexico.” The waiters began clearing the table and the cast and crew of the X Dames collected their paraphernalia and surfboards and headed down the road to the beach. Showtime.
“Remember, Lucy, timing is everything when you’re paddling out,” said Marcia. “Get as close as you can to the impact zone, where the waves are breaking, while there’s a set on. Then when the set is over paddle your ass off and hope you make it outside before the next set comes.” She’d been solicitous ever since they got up from the breakfast table and grabbed their gear, having figured out in her thick young head that she’d hurt Lucy’s feelings. Of course Marcia was slightly drunk from at least four glasses of champagne at breakfast; plus Lucy had seen Teresa reading Marcia the riot act as they walked down the road together, so this contrition act was a bit contrived. Whatever. It wasn’t like Lucy really had a right to be pissed, and she knew it. She had eluded the panther last night, and so he’d continued the hunt, and found other prey.
Lucy stood between Marcia and Sandra, each carrying shortboards, waiting for the moment. Lucy had Marcia’s Mayan snake-patterned longboard under one arm and her camera with an extra-long strap double-looped around her neck and clutched in her free hand. Stretchy rubber leashes with Velcro end-straps connected the boards to the women’s ankles, so that if they took a wipe-out the boards wouldn’t get carried on the waves all the way to the beach. They wore rash-guard shirts, all but Lucy’s numbered so the judges would know who was who. An air horn blown at 9:30 had signaled to all the surfers in the water to head shorewards. Now it was 9:50 and the last 17-year old Mexican surfpunk had just come ashore, pissed that his hometown wave had been jacked for the contest during the best swell he’d ever seen in Sayulita. He sneered, going past. The first heat girls ignored him. Marcia and Sandra, flanking Lucy, stood at water’s edge in the cove; Martina and Bev had decided to hit the water forty yards up the beach. All five of them looked out to sea, making their calculations.
X Dames: A Lucy Ripken Mystery (The Lucy Ripken Mysteries Book 3) Page 8